


The Father, The Son, and The Holy Bottle Of Cough Syrup

by ChampionFlyer



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Coughing, Fever, Hurt/Comfort, Malcolm Bright Gets a Hug, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Mental Health Issues, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Paranoia, Parental Gil Arroyo, Protective Gil Arroyo, Sick Character, Sick Malcolm, The Flu Strikes Again, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:53:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22931308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampionFlyer/pseuds/ChampionFlyer
Summary: Malcolm despised being sick. Especially as a little kid.But he hasn't been ill in years, so how bad can it be, right?Or: Malcolm gets the flu and needs a little help (and comfort) from Gil.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Comments: 6
Kudos: 117





	The Father, The Son, and The Holy Bottle Of Cough Syrup

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo...  
> PRODIGAL SON FUCKING SMACKS!
> 
> It's really good shit. Also, I fucking love Tom Payne and I hope I do well writing for this fandom.

Growing up, much like he is now, Malcolm was always prone to illness and injury as a child. It was in his blood. Didn’t make any of it more enjoyable, but he had the peace of mind knowing that he would grow out of it by his adult years. 

And he did. He outgrew the constant illness and playground incidents and near consistent ER visits. He outgrew the cases of flu and colds and viral stomach bugs. Maybe it was the constant distraction of his serial killer father that allowed him to outgrow everything. 

However, there was one thing he could never quite abandon; his lack of proper personal care. 

Skip forward to now, where he’s cursing himself for not seeking sleep and not eating enough or not taking good care of himself. He must have known it was coming at some point. Malcolm could practically feel his immune system degrade over the course of the busy weeks, with each new case dragging his health through the mud time and time again. He thought he’d be alright, just a few more days until he could officially close this disastrous case. 

Until the yearly flu epidemic hit New York. 

Then only days later, it hit the NYPD. 

Officers and detectives were out left and right, forcing the team to respond to nearly twice the amount of usual business. Not only did they have homicide cases on their hands, but now they had to deal with the more mild cases, like car theft and robberies. Tacking on more cases and more work wore Malcolm thin by the end of the week. Dani and JT too. Gil even seemed slightly less enthusiastic than normal. 

Malcolm tried to avoid getting ill at all costs. Ever since his father’s arrest as a child, being sick only made his odd behavior worsen. And that was when he was a  _ child _ , back when his issues didn’t add more problems to his life. These days, Malcolm barely trusted himself at home alone, let alone when he’s down with a bug. He made sure to wash his hands at least five times a day, use hand sanitizer excessively, and stay away from any of the unwell officers at the precinct. He even took a multivitamin that JT offered him. 

Apparently none of that makes up for the years of poor self-preservation. 

Because the next morning, Malcolm awoke to the all-too-bright sun shining through his massive window, blinding him for a moment before the sheer discomfort began to kick in. His body was drenched in sweat as were the joggers he’d slept in the night before. His sinuses felt as if they were stuffed with cotton and his chest was heavy with clear upper respiratory inflammation. His stomach churned, despite being quite empty as usual, whilst his head spun around like a dreidel. 

He was sick.  _ Dammit.  _

_ Dammit dammit dammit DAMMIT! _

He could  _ not  _ be sick. Not today. Not ever. 

The team needs him at the precinct, they need him on cases. They need their profiler, half-dead or not. 

Malcolm winced, his headache flaring from the near-constant sunlight pouring into his apartment. He needed to get up, get out and get to the station. He was almost positive he would be late. He slowly peeled his eyes open, a hazy drunken feeling appealing to his vision as he lay as still as possible. He needed a game plan. Malcolm usually did quite well without one, but today, he needed a plan. 

He could call Gil, though he would likely make him stay home anyway. Dani would do the same. JT would hang up. 

In all honesty, he should probably just stay home. And he knows that. It’s just that he doesn’t trust himself to be alone, sick, and feverish. He doesn’t  _ want  _ to be alone, sick, and feverish. He wants to be cared for but not coddled. He wants someone to be there with him, like when he was younger. 

Once when he was eleven, he had been staying with the Arroyos for the weekend over Christmas break. Malcolm had been feeling off all day but nothing warranted any kind of concern. He told Jackie he was feeling tired, then turned in before Gil had even gotten home. Later that night, he had dashed to the closest bathroom, puking up his medicine and dinner from the day before. He felt guilty waking them up in the middle of the night to tell them he’d been sick in their guest bathroom. It only made him feel worse knowing that he was a nuisance to Gil and his wife. 

But he remembers how Gil’s face had softened in the dimly lit bedroom and how he let himself be carried down the steps to the soft blue couch. He remembers Jackie holding him as he was sick again later in the night, assuring him everything was alright and that he was okay. Gil had stayed home with him the next morning, the both of them exhausted from the constant puking and fever spikes of the previous night. They stayed in the living room the whole day, watching old western movies and napping on the sofa. 

Jackie came home that evening to find her husband sipping a cup of tea with their son’s head cradled in his side. 

Malcolm made a judgment call. He was going to stay home  _ if  _ someone stayed with him. 

And that someone had to be either Gil or his mother, and there was no way he could even begin to tolerate her chiding at the moment. 

As if on cue, Malcolm’s phone rang from his beside, the eccentric ringtone aggravating his piercing headache. He flopped over to his side, grabbing at the phone before letting it fall beside him on the comforter. He picked up, putting the call on speaker. 

“Gil?”  _ God,  _ his voice is terrible. “Why’r you calling?”

_ “Good morning to you too, kid. You sound awful.”  _

Malcolm groaned not so subtlely into his pillow. “‘Feel like shit… can’t come into work today--”

_ “Bright, it’s Saturday. You’re not coming into the precinct anyway. Plus, you were looking a little iffy at the station yesterday. I figured you’d come down with something one of these days. Have you taken your temperature yet?”  _

“--No.”

_ “Do you want me to come over. I know how you get when you’re sick. If you want me to be there, I’ll be there in ten minutes.” _

“Please,” Malcolm said desperately. “Please, Gil, feed Sunshine first. I don’t want to get her sick.” 

There was hesitation over the line. For a moment, Malcolm thought Gil had hung up.  _ “Okay, okay-- Kid, here’s what I need you to do until I get there. Drink some water and find a thermometer. Can you accomplish that?” _

Malcolm grimaced. “I d-don’t think I can s-stomach anything. And I-I don’t have a thermometer. Please don’t tell my mother I’m sick. I’m  _ not  _ sick.”

Gil sighed, clearly distraught by Malcolm’s seemingly escalating illness.  _ “Okay, until I get there just stay in bed. Relax and get comfortable, alright?” _

Malcolm made a noise that sounded like an agreement. He wasn’t quite sure. He was asleep again before he even clicked off the call. 

* * *

Gil knew Malcolm like the back of his hand. It was no surprise when the kid began to look a little worse for wear. His eyes were duller than usual, no sign of his signature Bright enthusiasm anywhere. And he was quiet. He didn’t even bother to strike up a strange medical conversation with Edrisa. 

Gil anticipated it would come. That Malcolm would get sick and need a comforting figure around to keep him sane.  _ Somewhat  _ sane… 

So when Gil arrived at Malcolm’s apartment with a bag of much-needed care essentials, he was not surprised when he found the front door unlocked. Balancing his reusable shopping bag in one hand and a bottle of ginger ale in the other, he carefully turned the metal doorknob and let himself into the apartment. 

Sunshine made her usual happy bird noises when Gil entered past the doorway. He always gave her strawberries when he brought food over for Malcolm. Now she just naturally knows when Gil comes around, so do fresh strawberries. Gil smiled, remembering the sick day foods he had packed in his bag along with the container of berries for Sunshine. Soup, crackers, and oatmeal would surely do the trick if Malcolm’s stomach would allow. 

The bedsheets shifted as Gil looked over to the bed by the large half-clinical window. Malcolm, in all his sweaty, pale, dysfunctional glory, stirred, peeling his dazed, glassy eyes open. 

His brain seemed to still be asleep because all he did was stare in confusion at Gil. He squinted, groaning as the sunlight intensified in the early morning bask. 

Gil stepped forward, placing the bag on the floor and made his way over to his son’s bedside. He crouched down in front of the kid, making eye contact with the disheveled profiler. “Hey, kid. You look--  _ not great. _ ” 

Malcolm huffed. “I feel  _ not great. _ ” 

“I think you’ve got the flu.” 

Malcolm tried to ease himself upright against his headboard, his arms quickly giving out. Gil lunged forward to prevent the sick profiler from hitting his head on the wood of the board. He grabbed under Malcolm’s sweat-soaked arms and lifted him up so he was half-sitting on the bed, back rested against the mounds pillows. Up close, he looked absolutely terrible. His bangs clung to his forehead like a lifeline, contrasting against his pale, sickly appearance. He shivered, trembling against Gil’s hands as if there was an earthquake inside his limbs. He looked as if he had gotten no sleep, which wouldn’t be completely too far from the usual Bright-antics. 

He looked younger, vulnerable even.  _ Exhausted.  _

Gil knew he needed to get something started. Food maybe. Water definitely. Was he too hot or too cold? What’s his temperature? 

He reached for the bag he had placed beside the bed, pulling out a baby blue thermometer. Gil handed it to Malcolm, who stared at the small instrument for a moment. “Bright, do I need to explain to you how a thermometer works?”

The profiler chuckled, his eyes watering slightly. “No, no-- I know how to use one. It’s just… this is the same one Jackie always used when I was sick. I can’t believe you kept this.” 

Gil remembers the numerous times that the kid had come down with a fever. Jackie always used the thermometer first before anything. She knew the importance of keeping a fever low, especially when Malcolm was concerned. She always knew just what to do. 

Gil smiled fondly. “Yeah, kid. I kept it. I knew that I’d need it again at some point.”

Malcolm clicked the green button on the base of the tool, popping the skinny metal end in his mouth under his tongue. His face scrunched up in discomfort, but it quickly fell when the small device beeped moments later. He took it out and held it up in front of his face, squinting the small numbers displayed on the screen. 

“Ninety-nine point three! Not as high as I thought.”

Gil snatched the thermometer from Malcolm’s quivering hands. He sighed, stress radiating off his body like radiation. “Kid, this says one hundred and two point five. That’s way too high. I brought fever reducers and I’m sure I can find a washcloth around here somewhere. I’m working on the assumption that you haven’t eaten anything yet.”

Malcolm paled. “I’m not h-hungry.”

“You need to eat something. I brought crackers, just have a few of those. That way, you can take the fever reducers  _ and  _ your medications.”

“Gil, I feel sick. If I eat something, I will vomit it up on the floor. Then it will be your problem, not mine.”

The elder detective scoffed. “ _ Fantastic!  _ As long as you get some form of food in your stomach for the time being. I don’t care if you puke several different places in the apartment, I just want to take care of that fever.”

Malcolm looked at his hands, one trembling harder than the other. “If I take anything, I’ll just puke it back up. What if my meds don’t kick in and my nightmares get worse? I don’t want to hurt you or cause you any more trouble or--”

Gil stopped the Malcolm-train-of-thought before it could derail. “ _ If  _ you vomit up your meds, I’ll make sure to wake you up in case you have a nightmare. And I’ve been cleaning up your vomit since you were eleven, kid. Just try to relax, I’ll help you through this okay? You’re going to be fine.”

Malcolm didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. Gil bent down to put the thermometer back in the bag, bringing back up a bottle of room temperature water and a small box of saltine crackers. He opened the box, handing Malcolm a few crackers before setting it aside. Malcolm swallowed harshly. Poor kid probably felt nauseous. Cold too. He looked like a frozen icicle. Gil didn’t want to take any chances on the fever getting worse, it was better to tackle it now rather than later. 

Gil placed a gentle hand on Malcolm’s trembling shoulder. “Just eat a few. I know it sucks, but trust me, you’ll feel better once you take the fever reducers. Do you want me to get your meds together while I grab you another blanket?”

Malcolm sighed, nodding out of pure frustration and fatigue. Gil smiled, cupping the kid’s burning cheek before rising from his perch on the side of the bed. He paced over to the kitchen island where he’d seen the bottles of medication when he’d been there before. He also kept some of the prescriptions on hand in case the profiler would need them. Pulling the small bottle of Tylenol out of his pants pocket, Gil began placing the proper amount of white fever reducers and yellow-green pills in his hand. He was sure to sanitize his hands before scooping Malcolm’s mental stabilizer candy into his palm. 

He looked at the largest bottle, one he had never seen before. The pills inside were a light gray, resembling a small stone of sorts. They looked like a physical choking hazard. Gil picked it up, turning and shaking it to get the sick man’s attention. Malcolm stirred from where he had begun to drift off, looking over at Gil with his distant, glassy eyes. 

Gil shook the bottle again. “Bright, how many of these do you take?”

“O-One?”

“Are you certain you only take one? Or do I need to call your doctor so I don’t accidentally kill you?”

Malcolm drowsily shook his head. “They’re jus’ vitamin s-supplements. Doc said I n-need a stronger vitamin s-source than j-jus’ Flintstone g-gummies…” 

Gil scoffed, turning back around to pour out one large grey tablet into the palm of his hand. “You’re still seeing your childhood therapist  _ and  _ you haven’t given up Flintstone gummies. You really aren’t a fan of change, huh?”

Gil wasn’t expecting a response, but he also wasn’t expecting Malcolm to sneeze into the crook of his elbow. He was too busy chopping the gray vitamin rock in two to notice the snot dripping from the inner crook of the profiler’s arm. “--You happen to bring any tissues?”

“Bedside table, on your right. Can’t miss it, kid.”

He mumbled a blurry “thanks” under his exhausted mentality, blowing his nose into the tissue from the blue Kleenex box. He lazily tossed it in the direction of the floor beside the bed rather than just setting it on the nightstand. 

Gil returned with the medication cocktail, the pills blending together like cheap alcohol in his hand. It was no wonder the kid hadn’t thought to take his meds today. There were so many, it hurt Gil to think that the only thing keeping his son from tipping over the edge were these pills. Some days, Gil wonders if Malcolm would be better without them. He likely wouldn’t, but if he could battle his trama  _ without  _ medication, it would give Gil more hope. Jessica too. 

He sat beside Malcolm on the bed, placing one pill at a time into the trembling hands of the sickly profiler. “Small sips of water should wash these down just fine. Start with the fever reducers, then make sure you end with the vitamins. Try your best, but if you feel like you can’t handle all of them, just stop. There’s no shame in stopping.”

Malcolm nodded, snagging the opened water bottle from the nightstand and forced down the Tylenol tablets with a small sip of water. He barely gagged on the first two pills but by his third one, Gil could see his face turning a greenish tone. 

“Hey, Mal-- take a break for a sec, okay? You’re looking a little green.”

Malcolm’s hand spasmed, sending pills flying all over the bedsheets. “I feel  _ really  _ sick, Gil--” Malcolm whimpered pathetically. Gil’s heart broke seeing his son in such a vulnerable state. Nothing could compare to when he was injured or in danger, but right now all Gil felt was twisted. Twisted emotions. 

Gil pulled the quaking kid into a soft, fatherly hug, Malcolm’s head taking its favorite spot on his shoulder. “I know, kid-- we can stop now. No more medicine for now.”

“I d-didn’t… I didn’t take the anti-psychotics o-or my p-panic m-meds. I’m g-going to have night t-terrors and n-not be able t-to wake-up…” 

Gil’s hand carded through the back of Malcolm’s sweat-drenched hair, picking out soft knots of tangles and inhaling sharply. The poor kid’s getting himself all worked up over the inevitable. Yeah, he’s going to have nightmares again. That’s just what happens. But mixed with the fever dreams and confusion, this could get worse. He could get hysterical, or violent. Gil really wishes he didn’t have to put Malcolm back to sleep. Sleep only tortures him. But he could barely keep his eyes open, and Gil knows how much good sleep can do for the human body. 

“Malcolm, listen to me,” Gil said, pulling the kid out of the hug so he could look into Gil’s comforting grey eyes. “I  _ will not _ let any of that happen. You can trust me, I will wake you up if you look like you’re in need of help. I’m not leaving you, you can sleep. It’s okay, kid.”

Malcolm’s eyes fluttered, a fever-induced tear rolled down his cheek. “P-Promise you’ll wake me up?”

Gil chuckled, easing an exceptionally sleepy Bright back into the mattress, tucking the sheets around his shivering form. “I promise. Get some rest, kid.”

And just like that, Malcolm was dead to the world, his sick induced sleep lulling him into a state of unconsciousness. 

* * *

  
  


Gil found himself to be quite entertained while Malcolm was asleep. 

Despite the bland look, the profiler’s apartment served many purposes other than just giving him a place to live. Gil set up shop on the couch, nestled in the middle of full-length cushions. He liked to watch all the popular crime television shows and point out everything wrong about the police tactics. It used to annoy the hell out of Jackie. 

Gil fed Sunshine as Malcolm had feebly requested over their brief phone call earlier. She ate her usual birdseed but tweeted extra loudly when Gil tried to talk away. He knew she was looking for the strawberries. In order to keep the noisy chirping from the parakeet to a minimum, Gil tossed the berries into the cage to keep the bird quiet. He was concerned Malcolm would wake if she’d continued. 

Gil looked around at the wall of antique weaponry, reading the little plaques Malcolm had made for each specific weapon of its class. He wondered just how much time the kid possibly had on his hands, seeing as he made descriptive, factual bronze cards for each of his double-bladed axes.  _ All  _ of them actually. 

Gil moved onto reading about the ancient crossbow in the large display case when he heard a distant whimper from the sleeping profiler. He spun around, speedily crossing the floor between the couch and the bed, to reach Malcolm’s bedside. His face was shriveled up in fear and confusion, his breathing rapidly picking up. His hand trembled quickly, moving faster than the speed of light. His shivers had worsed, which could only mean the fever was rising. It hadn’t even been two hours since Bright had taken the medicine. 

Malcolm yelped, a pained groan was soon to follow. “N-No-- stop!  _ P-Please _ !” 

Gil touched his shoulder gently, the kid flinching away in an instant. He tried again, this time gripping the profiler’s bicep and shaking him subtly. “Kid, come on-- wake up. You’re okay.”

Malcolm thrashed around in the bed, successfully kicking Gil off the bedside and onto the floor. It didn’t hurt, but Bright could sure as hell pull a kick if he needed to. The detective regained his footing, standing up just in time to catch Malcolm shooting up in bed, breathing as if he’d been running through rugged terrain. Gil reached out, hoping not to startle the kid in any way. He hesitantly placed his hand upon the trembling limb, silently relieved when he didn’t pull away. 

Malcolm panted, his glasslike eyes filled with tears and his rosy cheeks looking paler than before. Gil took his place on the bed beside the panicked profiler, making it clear that he wasn’t leaving. His hand never left the boy. Instead, it shifted around to rub circles of his back. It was a calming gesture that Gil remembers using when Malcolm had been worked up in the past. 

Gil craned his face in front of his son’s, making it clear to the delirious Bright that he was here and in the present. “Bright, you with me?”

Malcolm swallowed, nodding slowly. His eyes hadn’t shifted from where they had been trained for the moments prior. His breathing was still quick and short, resembling that of a scared kitten, but it didn’t seem like it was out of panic anymore. 

“Kid, you look like you’re about to--”

Malcolm’s breath hitched. He scrambled out of Gil’s touch and off the bed, tripping over his bedsheets in the process. His hand was clamped over his mouth tightly, the area around his lips turning white from the pressure. The disheveled profiler dashed into his bathroom, disappearing behind a cracked door. 

Gil wasn’t far behind him, but he kept a respectable distance. He knew how much Bright  _ hated  _ the feeling of being crowded when he was ill. He never minded Jackie, but he wasn’t sure how keen the kid would be if it was Gil sitting on the floor beside him. So for the time being, Gil hovered in the doorway as the profiler heaved and gagged into the pearly white porcelain. 

Nothing came up, yet Malcolm heaved and heaved, overexerting himself time and time again. Stress tears leaked out of his tightly bounded eyes, dripping down his feverish cheeks. He gagged, once again, nothing came up. It was literal hell. 

“ _ G-Gil _ ?”Malcolm whimpered, his throat burning and his stomach clenching. “W-Why won’t a-anything come up? Why isn’t i-it working?”

Gil stepped through the doorway, leaning against the sink with worry plastered on his face. “You haven’t eaten anything today. There’s nothing for you to vomit up, except your meds, but by the looks of it, they’ve totally dissolved already.”

The detective watched as Malcolm gritted his teeth and gripped the bowl with an inhuman amount of force. It was painful to  _ watch _ , Gil couldn’t even imagine how the kid must be feeling. Especially considering his body is weak from the weeks of improper sleep and eating habits. Malcolm dry heaved for about ten minutes before his stomach finally let up. The profiler collapsed into Gil’s waiting arms, ready to help him back to bed when Bright seemed stable enough to move. 

Gil dabbed the spit and tears off Malcolm’s face with a wet cloth, wincing at the intense heat that still rolled off the boy’s skin. “Would you be mad at me if I stuck a thermometer in your mouth right now?”

Malcolm didn’t reply, but there was a slight smile and a shake of his head. Gil didn’t want to go sticking anything in the kid’s mouth after the period of time he just spent nearly vomiting his guts up. Malcolm likely appreciated that too. 

Gil lightly patted the side of the profiler’s head. “You ready to stand up?”

Malcolm nodded sleepily. “Okay, good-- just try not to pass out on me, alright? Can’t have my profiler getting any concussions.”

Gil heaved Malcolm up, the kid weighing less than a paperclip under his strength. The profiler moaned, the movement pulling at his tender stomach muscles. “C-Couch?”

“What?”

“C-Can we go to the couch, please?”

Gil smiled, slowly leading his sick son out of the small bathroom. “Yeah kid, just like old times, right?”

Malcolm nodded as Gil lowered him down onto the large, seated sofa. There was more than enough room for Malcolm to lay down comfortably and for Gil to find a nice, comfy place to take a load off. While Bright eased himself into a sustainable sleeping position, Gil rounded up every blanket in the apartment and dumped them on the ground beside the sick boy. He then grabbed a washcloth he had put in the freezer earlier to drape onto Malcolm’s burning head. 

When he returned back to the couch, the kid was dysfunctionally trying to pull a blanket off the pile. It would have made Gil chuckle if he hadn’t known the profiler was likely delusional from the high fever. 

Gil kneeled in front of Bright for what felt like the twelfth time that day. The poor kid was nearly asleep, yet he seemed so determined on gathering up the grey fleece blanket from the pile. “Mal, I’ll make you a deal. You can have as many blankets as you want  _ if  _ you can take a sip of water for me. And you need to keep the cold compress on your forehead.”

The word cold made Malcolm shiver harder. But the idea of having  _ more  _ blankets was as far better trade than no blankets. Malcolm complied easily, taking a sip from his water bottle Gil had brought him. The cold compress made him flinch at first, but he eased into it. Gil kept up his end of the bargain. Soon he was covering the shivering profiler in blanket after blanket. Gil settled into the couch, lifting Malcolm’s feet so he could have a kind, compassionate touch on the kid  _ and  _ have a decent view of the TV. It was, after all, an eighty-inch flat-screen television. 

Malcolm sighed, finally out of comfort rather than the other unpleasant feelings associated with being sick. “Th’nk you for h-helping me out, Gil.”

Gil smiled. “Anytime, kid. You know that. Now get some rest, we’ll need you up and ready next week.”

Malcolm’s lips twitched up into a tired smirk, settling down into the cushions. He drifted off in a matter of minutes. 

Gil, however, couldn’t focus on the Monty Python movie playing in the background. All he could see was the content, calm face of his son. He couldn’t say he associated Malcolm with being calm, much less content, but he savored the moment. 

His kid would be okay. 

No matter what, Bright would find a way to make it through. He’s far stronger than he believes. 

  
Nevertheless, Gil will  _ always  _ believe in him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Leave Kudos and Comments folks!
> 
> Also, for those within close proximity to the coronavirus, stay safe! stay healthy! I'm sending you good luck and fanfiction in hopes of giving you a possible distraction from all this chaos. 
> 
> Love yinz <3


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